A Fine Line
by lead me to salvation
Summary: There's a fine line between living and merely existing. Rosalie's life before and after the war.
1. Before

**.Before. **

**May 1914**

"Rosalie, you'll never _believe_ what's happened," Vera gushes as she sails into the drawing room like a ship on the high seas, brandishing a newspaper. Rosalie looks up from her writing desk.

"Go on."

"You know that politician – the Labour one, Mr Vincent?"

"Yes…"

"His wife's run off with their daughter. Apparently she's been having an _affair_." Vera pronounces the last word with relish, and sits down on the divan with a regal impatience, waiting for her stepsister's reaction.

"That's awful," Rosalie says, a hand fluttering to her throat. "And so shocking – he's doing such good for the country, and she has the nerve to leave him like that?"

"I know," Vera replies smugly, one hand cradling the slight rise of her pregnant belly that protrudes from beneath her lawn dress. A wedding ring glitters on her finger. "I would never _dream _of having an affair. It just makes one seem so flighty. How is the charity work going?"

"It's going well, thank you for asking," Rosalie turns back to her letter. "Miss Tilletson says that three more girls arrived last week – two of them are with child. It's frankly appalling."

"Well, you are doing your best to help them, I suppose." Vera's tone is patronising. There is quiet, for a second, only the sounds of the maids cleaning in the library. Then Vera begins to talk again, waxing lyrical about the splendours of her new evening dress, and can-you-believe-the-things-some-people-have-been-up-to?

Rosalie begins to write her letter again. A woman having an affair is something she'll never understand – why, with men it is to be expected, as May Tilletson says, men do the things they want and no woman will ever stop them – but a woman, disobeying her wedding vows? A woman is a creature of morality, and should strive to uphold it like a light in the amoral world of men.

She's seen what has happened to girls who have let men take advantage of them, poor, destitute, begging on the street corners for a copper coin to feed their illegitimate children, or more often turning to…to selling themselves until there is no hope for them at all. But Rosalie contents herself with the thought that she is helping, perhaps only a few, but she is helping nonetheless.

It makes up for the hopeless thought of spending her life as the maiden aunt.

* * *

After Vera has left to go shopping with two of her friends, one of whom is getting married in two weeks, one of the maids fetches Rosalie's coat and hat, and the chauffeur takes her to the tea-shop on Oxford Street where she and May Tilletson have become accustomed to meeting. The sun shines broodily from behind a layer of cloud – hardly suitable weather for the end of spring – and people bustle on the pavement, weaving in and out of each other like the insects that her father used to collect.

May is already sitting at their white-clothed table with the pretty flowered teapot steaming gently in front of her and scones piled on a silver cake-stand.

"Good afternoon, Rosalie," she says, standing and primly kissing Rosalie on both cheeks.

"Good afternoon, May. How are you?"

"I'm very well, thank you. Yourself?"

"Yes, very well. I hear that the three girls are settling in."

"Yes, yes, they are," May pours out tea for them both in a stream of amber, taking a scone from the stand. "Wretched, all three of them, but there's a vacancy now since several have found places at the big houses."

"And the children?"

"Installed at the orphanage across the street. There were many tears, but Sister sorted it all out right away. There's no time for that kind of nonsense, and if the girls are to rebuild their lives, they cannot bring their mistakes along with them."

"I quite agree," Rosalie nods, stirring her tea absently and taking a sip.

"How is your stepsister? I hear that she's expecting."

"Vera is very well, thank you. Yesterday she told me all about the nursery the servants are preparing, and she's starting to think about looking for a Nanny."

"Well, I know some fair ones through family friends," May says. "If she needs any assistance, then I can put her in touch with them."

"I'm sure she would be most grateful," Rosalie replies. "Thank you."

May looks at the charming grandfather clock across the room. "Oh dear, is that the time? I promised Mama that I'd talk to the housekeeper about the garden party we're hosting on the estate. Your family have been invited, Rosalie – the invitation should arrive soon. The post service these days is positively dreadful."

"Yes, it is," Rosalie stands. "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"I don't know – I'll have the butler send a message if not."

"Thank you."

And with another quick kiss to the cheek, May is gone down the steps and Rosalie is subsiding back into the white wicker chair. Her 'teas' with May are becoming more and more brief as summer draws on and the Season draws to a close. Vera's friend is marrying, and Rosalie's eighteen-year-old cousin, pretty, vivacious Louise is engaged to the second son of a Viscount. Soon, she will be called on to arrange wedding gifts, and accompany Louise to the dressmaker's for the endless fittings it will take to find the perfect gown. She enjoys spending time with Louise, but she regrets, sometimes, that she'll never have the chance to be the one being clucked over by various female relatives as she readies herself for the long walk down the aisle towards the altar.

Rosalie shakes her head, signals for her coat to be brought. Getting married to any one of the suitors her mother introduced to her during her various Seasons is laughable. She's a survivor, now, not a debutante, and from what she's seen of the world, it will be for the better.

Men are beasts, and she's perfectly content where she is.

* * *

**A/N **Just a little two-part story focussed on Rosalie. Enjoy! N xxx


	2. After

**.After.**

**May 1921**

It's strange, how seven years and a war can change someone beyond recognition. Rosalie stands at the sink in her little house, looking out over the garden where her flowers bloom, honeysuckle trailing loving fingers over the crumbling wall, tulips standing straight and proud like soldiers in bright dress uniforms.

She washes the last dirty plate, and turns to where her one and a half year old daughter is happily drawing a picture, the pencil sliding and skidding across the paper as though possessed by some drunken spirit.

"What are you drawing today, darling?" she asks.

"Mummy, Daddy, Ida," she says, her tongue poking out of the side of her mouth in concentration.

"That's lovely," Rosalie smiles, one hand falling to the slight swell of her stomach underneath her dress. "Are you going to draw baby as well?"

"Yes," Ida says, as though she's affronted by the question. She reaches out for the blue pencil, and Rosalie pushes it towards her, gently brushing a lock of flame-coloured hair out of Ida's face, one hand absently falling to the slight curve of her belly.

How strange it is that in the space of seven short years, her life has been turned upside down and inside out.

When she had first gone out as a nurse, everyone had been so _shocked._ It was rather gratifying, in a way, to show them that she wasn't useless, she wasn't the embarrassing, unmarried daughter that someone had once put it. She was finally doing something, making a difference, being a help instead of being a burden.

And then, well…that first October, when the days were getting shorter and leaves fell from the trees in drifts and waves of fire and gold, she'd nursed him. The fevered stretcher-bearer who'd been certain that the voices of the injured men were calling to him. He was the one who had forced her to face up to the infantile fears that had been holding her back like a wall holding back the tide. Well, the wall had fallen and she is changed.

He was the first man to ever call her beautiful. And now, well, she's married to him.

When he'd been discharged back to the front, he'd written to her. Thanking her for sitting at his bedside and mending his glasses. For talking to him and helping him through the worst of his fever. She had replied, and after that, well, it had grown and grown like a flower in springtime through their letters, and then the war had ended and he'd come back to the hospital, blind in one eye but still standing straight and tall. She remembers it as though it were yesterday – she'd been helping the last of the wounded who weren't stricken with Spanish Influenza onto the convoy, and then he'd been there, standing in front of her with a hope opening in his eyes like a door.

And then it had happened so quickly.

Her family had been mortified at her – a Right Honourable Lady marrying a commoner, a bookshop owner – but she was Rosalie Parry, and there was nothing they could do about it. Vera was delighted that her stepsister was involved in such 'a delicious scandal' as she'd put it, but Rosalie couldn't care less. Now, she has a husband who loves her, a pretty little house on the outskirts of London, a beautiful daughter and another baby on the way.

She has friends now, too, friends who don't just put up with her as the old society of London did. Kitty Gillan – the 'disgraced ex-wife of the politician' that Vera told her about all that time ago - lives nearby with her new husband and children, and the other nurses she worked with during the war are scattered about the place, some still nursing, a few married, some living with relatives.

Compared to what it is now, her life before the war was merely a meaningless existence.

She hears the sound of the front door creaking open from the hallway, the step of her husband clicking on the flagstones. "Daddy!" Ida squeals. Rosalie lifts her wriggling daughter down from the chair, and follows her as she toddles towards the sound of her father hanging his cap up on the peg.

"Hello, sweetheart," he says, and there is another happy shriek as he comes into the kitchen with Ida balanced on one hip. He wraps an arm around Rosalie, kissing her gently. "How are you feeling, darling?"

"I'm wonderful," she smiles.

And it's true. There's a fine line between living and existing, but she's crossed that now.

Her life is full where it once was empty, and she couldn't be happier.

* * *

**A/N **Here's the other end of the little Rosalie fic. Enjoy! N xx


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